These
two contrasting three-disc sets, Threesome No. 1 and
Threesome No. 2, distill Frank Zappa’s enormous catalog
to some of its most essential titles. Each set offers three
complete albums, together in one slipcase (and now offered
at a midline price!).

Threesome
No. 1 consists of the albums Freak Out!, Absolutely
Free and We’re Only in It For the Money. Released
from 1966 to 1968, these effectively toppled the applecart
of then-current conventions, sending pointed barbs in the
expected direction of the establishment, but more importantly,
also exposing the hypocrisies and smoke and mirrors of the
counterculture/hippie realm. Zappa was a synthesizer of varied
existing forms (making it little surprise that he devoted
much of his later decades to using actual synthesizers for
all or part of his compositional and performance processes).
Throughout these albums there are strains of doo-wop, L.A.
soul, post-bop jazz grooves, 20th-century classical experimentation
and rock & roll ditties. The one distortion is the absence
of the name Mothers of Invention on the front cover of this
package (it is the only name that appeared on the covers of
the original releases). Their legacy became Zappa’s legacy,
but there was significant input from the other participants
(this has been a bone of contention for some former members
over the years).

Threesome
No. 2 marks the dazzling emergence of Frank Zappa’s primarily
instrumental jazz-based music during the period from 1969
to 1972. Drawing on a range of largely Los Angeles-based players,
the music is by turns formal, loose, serious, comical, bold
and brash, subtle and confident. The three albums, Hot
Rats, Waka/Jawaka and The Grand Wazoo, both
draw on his previous work and point the way toward his future
excursions.

In total, these six albums are a celebration of some Zappa
peaks, as well as a solid introduction for those uncertain
of how and where to enter his sprawling domain.

—David
Greenberger

Peter
StuartPropeller
(Vanguard)

Former Counting Crows back-up singer Peter Stuart served as
principle songwriter and frontman for the late dog’s eye view,
who toured heavily and issued two very well-crafted albums
(Happy Nowhere and Daisy) in the mid-’90s. While
dog’s eye view never veered too terribly far from Counting
Crows- flavored fare, their take on the sorts of thoughtful
pop-rock in which Adam Duritz and company specialize was fresh
and vibrant—leaving at least this critic holding high expectations
for Stuart’s first solo disc. Unfortunately, however, those
expectations were dashed fairly quickly, as Propeller
sounds more like a marginal B-level Counting Crows cover act
than anything dog’s eye view ever released. Where Daisy
rocked and Happy Nowhere grooved, Propeller
just sort of . . . sits, a victim of middle-of-the-road tempos
and tepid arrangements that make it hard to even find, much
less focus on, the songs beneath them. Which is dismaying,
because Stuart has it in him to be a powerful singer, an insightful
lyricist and a melodic master. Somebody get him a band, and
quick, since this solo thing isn’t bringing any of those assets
to the fore.

—J.
Eric Smith

DeadsyCommencement
(DreamWorks)

Deadsy are a self-proclaimed entity created to “purify and
primify the human solution of sound and vision,” and have
even printed up a wordy manifesto to identify what I assume
they view as the “problem” with today’s music. After a dozen
spins through the band’s debut, Commencement, however,
it is clear that they have not arrived at a solution, but
have ironically created the exact nature of the dilemma. I
won’t mince words. The CD is not frightening. It’s not inspiring.
It’s not depressing, moving or funny. It doesn’t make you
want to fight, dance, fuck or smoke cigarettes. And if these
things are in fact problems to be remedied in music, I’m baffled.

Oversaturated with gratuitous synthesizers and fartsy guitars,
forgettable hooks and just downright generic Goth moaning
from Elijah Blue, this relatively emotionless stuff probably
is aimed at the Trench Coat Mafia crowd, but really just comes
off sounding like bad Human League. Any of these tracks could
have appeared on The Breakfast Club soundtrack (if
they were produced better). I kept waiting for Judd Nelson
to appear out of nowhere with fingerless gloves to offer me
a hit from his joint, particularly during the whimsical “Brand
New Love.” Unconvincingly somber, technologically elementary,
neither heavy nor ethereal . . . after a while, I just wanted
to turn it off. Even Brian Eno, who cowrote the murky “Winners,”
couldn’t save this effort from inflexibility and fatigue.
What’s worse, they have this whole “each guy assumes an identity/ideology”
thing going on, which is barely appealing even for bands who
manage to pull it off.

To be fair, Blue’s lyrics are decent enough, even at times
insightful and provoking. Indeed, there is something good
to be said for attempting to convey ideas that are a little
less obvious than standard fare, and Blue tries his tortured
best to show us that a rock & roller can be articulate,
well-read and awake at the wheel. But somehow, “in league
with Poseidon” doesn’t sound nearly as cool as “in league
with Satan.”

If you saw the Kremerata Baltica at their recent Union College
performance, you know part of what to expect from this recording:
a tight, energetic ensemble who play with fire, in both senses
of the phrase. The big surprise here is the repertory, which
comprises two works by the Romanian composer George Enescu
(1881-1955).

Worse than the obscurity of having posterity treasure none
of your work is Enescu’s dilemma: His Romanian Rhapsodies
are so popular that little else of his is programmed or promoted.
This recording rectifies that with an electrifying performance
of his little-known Octet for Strings and the debut
recording of his later Piano Quintet.

Written in 1900, Octet is a moody work that seems to
bridge early (tonal) Schoenberg and Shostakovich, featuring
sinewy melodies and crunchy textures. The four-movement work,
here presented in an arrangement for string orchestra, shimmers
throughout between the very big sound of that orchestra and
an intense give-and-take among solo instruments. The feel
of the piece overall is found in its opening, which throbs
with a rhythmic figure in the low strings over which sounds
a lush, minor-mode melody that impressionistically turns hauntingly
sweet from time to time. Not surprisingly, given the amount
of time Enescu spent in Paris, it also throbs with a Fauréan
lushness. But the voice is uniquely Enescu’s, drawing as much
from music of his native Romania as anywhere else.

The easygoing opening of the Quintet comes as a surprise
after the intense Octet finale, but the later piece
(it was written in 1940) confirms the passion and uniqueness
of Enescu’s voice. Here he seems even more in Fauré territory—if
Fauré had suffered from clinical depression. Not that the
music is depressing, but it travels a path through such fits
of darkening intensity that when it does emerge from the clouds
it seems all the brighter.

We’re accustomed to a level of extremely competent playing
these days. The performances here go beyond that: You can
hear the risks that are taken, and the payoffs are all the
greater for it.